


Deserving

by Siadea



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, no good things for sons of feanor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5799181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siadea/pseuds/Siadea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dior the Beautiful makes a different decision regarding the Silmaril he has inherited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deserving

Dior thinks about what his parents, what his mother, would want. Then he thinks about what their legacy _deserves,_ and he sends a message to Maedhros. 

All of the Kinslayers are before him now, in Menegroth, and Dior knows his grandfather's fëa must be railing at Mandos for the temerity of them, and for how Dior is failing to uphold his family's honor. (Dior has never really cared for his grandfather. Knowing that he is wiser than Thingol _does_ please him.)

The attention of all six brothers is fixed on him - or rather, what is in his hands - like a collection of ragged hounds straining at the leash. Dior knows Celegorm the Cruel by his hair; Curufin the Liar by his hands and rings. Maedhros is unmistakable, and makes Dior feel every bit of his youth and inexperience. Still, Dior is king of Doriath, and Maedhros is dispossessed of everything save his ravenous brothers and their mad followers. Dior has Nimloth, his children, his kingdom. And maybe, he hopes, some of his mother's power.

"The Silmaril is yours," he announces, rising from his throne. "Queen Melian foresaw that holding it would bring grief to Doriath, and it has. We, the people of Doriath, will have no more of it." He sees Maedhros's face relax, sees Caranthir the Dark exhale. Celegorm smiles.

Dior smiles back, and it is a smile to match any cruelty or craft of the sons of Fëanor. "Nevertheless, it is not in my heart to reward those who have brought my parents so much grief. Doriath knows the tales from Nargothrond, and I have not forgotten how the sons of Feanor dealt with my parents. Nor have I forgotten the death of Finrod Felagund and his companions. Curufin. Celegorm. Come and receive your judgment." Celegorm, he sees, is no longer smiling. Curufin is.

Dior opens the box holding the Silmaril, and its light has not grown less for its familiarity to him. He plucks it from the box, feeling its coolness, and lets the box drop. Curufin reaches out his hand, but Dior turns from him. He seizes Celegorm by the wrist and presses the Silmaril into his hand, holding it against his palm.

The king of Menegroth feels nothing from the jewel, but Celegorm's flesh sizzles and burns as though Dior pressed a hot coal against him. The Kinslayer gasps, but does not scream, sweat pouring down his face as he reflexively tries to pull his hand away. Dior does not let him. 

"You filth!" exclaims one of the brothers, red-faced and sobbing on his own anger. From the corner of his eye, Dior sees Maedhros stop him from lunging forward, saying something in Quenya. Dior chooses to forgive the lapse, and releases Celegorm's hand. The Kinslayer's fingers grip the Silmaril, which Dior hadn't anticipated. He steps back as though it were his plan after all, and says, "Give the gem to your brother."

"Curvo..." Celegorm's eyes roll toward Curufin, whose bared teeth are now a smile in name only. "Curvo. I can't."

"Don't be stupid," says Curufin, and snatches the jewel out of Celegorm's blackened hand. Celegorm sags, and Maglor of the two swords steadies him. Curufin makes a low, drawn-out noise of pain as the Silmaril blazes through his flesh, but he holds Dior's gaze without wavering.

"My lord." Dior turns, seeing Nimloth rising from her own throne. Her face is white, but then, she had not grown up with tales of Fëanorions and their cruelty. She comes forward to join them. "My lord, let us show clemency. Orodreth of Nargothrond has exiled these men for their deeds there, and your parents defeated them. This is enough."

"They have done nothing to deserve mercy, my lady," Dior returns. Curufin has not dropped the Silmaril, but he is clutching the silent Amrod's hand, white-knuckled and grey-faced.

"My king, that is the nature of mercy: it is not earned," Nimloth replied. Silently, she adds, _It will help you later, when you discuss terms with Maedhros. And... Dior, you're frightening me. This isn't your nature. He'll never use that hand again, it's enough._

Dior takes a breath. He can't have Curufin stand there all day, after all. "You are kind as well as wise, my queen. Enough. Do with the jewel as you will; it is no longer Doriath's concern."

Maedhros releases Caranthir, going to one knee as he retrieves the box that had held the Silmaril. Curufin's fingers have locked around the jewel, and it is a farce to see three Fëanorions - Amrod, Maedhros, and Curufin himself - try to get the gem in the box without touching it. Nimloth, too kind for her own good, helps prise Curufin's charred fingers free, placing the Silmaril back into its container. Her fingers are stained with ash from the Kinslayer's flesh, and Dior sees her rub them together. "I'll have a healer sent to you," she says, too softly for the court to hear.

"Our thanks, your majesty," Maedhros replies. Curufin makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, but Maedhros speaks over him. "Your highness, long may the bards sing of your justice and wisdom. We do not want to trouble Doriath more than we already have, and humbly beg your leave to depart." Dior looks into Maedhros's flame-eyes, and sees that this humble self-abasement is as nothing to him. The man has given up a throne without blinking; Dior remembers Galadriel's tale of it, and of his capture by Morgoth. He could tell Maedhros to lick his boots, and it would rouse the Noldo's pride not at all: that realization is as repellent as the idea itself.

"You are dismissed," Dior says, lifting his chin. "I have had quarters prepared for you; we will have further council in the morning." Nimloth rejoins him, still rubbing her fingers together, and Dior sees that she is frantic to wash her hands, horrified that the ash on them is from one of the Eldar. "My queen, let us retire," he adds, and takes her arm to draw her away. There is no heart in him to look on the Feanorions any longer.


End file.
